


Wolves Without Teeth

by Tortellini



Series: Inktober/Fictober 2k19 [10]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Confessions, Crushes, Depression, Emotionally Repressed, Fictober 2019, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inktober 2019, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Depression, Sad, Season/Series 06, Slow Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tortellini/pseuds/Tortellini
Summary: Inktober/Fictober 2019 Day 10: FrailFandom: Downton AbbeyYears after being fired for one stupid mistake at Downton Abbey, Jimmy Kent gets a disturbing letter about an old friend. He rushes back as soon as he can, fearing he'll be too late.Oneshot





	Wolves Without Teeth

He was tired. 

Not just the sleep-tired sense. No, maybe that would be a little easier. And it wasn't like this was too surprising either; the years had passed since he was a sharp-eyed straight-backed young man, an ambitious footman. Now he was older, an adult: salt-and-pepper hair mixed in with the rich coal black, lines on his face and bags under his eyes...but his eyes themselves hadn't changed. Still a cool steel gray. 

Thomas Barrow had grown up the past few years too, believe it or not. When he was young he had a mean streak, to say the least--and that wasn't completely gone, but he had a reason for it too. He wasn't going to act like a bloody fairy just because he liked guys. He had more self-respect than that. These days he minded his own business for the most part. 

Well...he did. Until it came to Jimmy. 

Jimmy. James Kent. He was something else. Thomas had fallen hard and fast, harder than he had for anyone in a long time, and that was saying something (he'd die before he admitted it but he was a romantic at heart). And he hadn't just because Jimmy looked like some sort of blonde adonis, what with his curls and twinkling blue eyes. He loved him for his wit, for his mind, for his sass, for his heart--

Thomas didn't like to think of it that much after that. Jimmy didn't feel the same way. He was lucky he didn't get arrested. 

But even if he didn't get a fling out of it, Thomas was able to get the best friend he'd had in his whole entire life. They'd been inseparable, getting into so much trouble together that the Thomas of his youth would've been jealous of. He could close his eyes and picture it perfectly: games of cards, sly smirks, the smell of Jimmy's cologne. 

That hadn't lasted long. Jimmy had done something, and even if he didn't blame Thomas, Thomas blamed himself. Abruptly he was forced out. But he'd promised to write, Jimmy had, and he left bittersweetly, clasping his hands in his own. 

And he had written, for the first few weeks; the letters had come and Thomas read them privately, either in his room or out on his smoke break. He relished in Jimmy's excited handwriting too, telling him all about London and work and the pretty girls who he would flirt with on the street. The letters lessened and then stopped altogether soon after that. 

Thomas told himself he was busy. He had to support himself. This was fine. This was normal. 

Even so, Mr. Carson would huff out of his nose angrily when Thomas would look hopeful at the arrival at the mail. People like Mrs. Hughes and Anna would look at him pityingly and if possible he hated that even more. 

It wasn't even just one thing at this point. It wasn't just everything that happened with Jimmy. It was everything.

Thomas Barrow was tired. He picked up the little razor he used in the mornings to shave with, and sighed.

* * *

James "Jimmy" Kent had been doing better, honestly. At least he had a paying job that he wasn't too terrible at, and a roof over his head to sleep under. Sure, he missed what he was used to. That didn't seem like that much of a surprise. He was used to moving around from place to place though, from job to job at least eventually--so it was still weird. 

Mr. Barrow's letters had stopped. Jimmy was hurt, sure, but he figured he'd gotten busy or something, right? They'd been friends. He wouldn't have just stopped writing. Besides, he himself had gotten so busy that there was that too. Too busy to truly be hurt. 

So when the letter had come it really had been a bit of a shock. Downton Abbey, so Mr. Barrow had written, right? Wrong. Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, was the one who sent him the letter. The weirdest part about it was that he was sure she had never really liked him for some reason. Either way, she must've had a good reason, so he opened it. 

His confusion slowly turned to fear and uneasiness. And then to horror. 

> _James, _
> 
> _Thomas is in a very bad way. Things are not looking good. It would be best for you to be here, as you may be able to lift his spirits, even if writing to you is going against my better judgement. As soon as possible, preferably. _
> 
> _Elsie Hughes _

Jimmy reread the few short lines. Thomas--Mr. Barrow? Was he sick? Hurt? Was he dying? No, he was probably overreacting or something. But still, there was no doubt in his mind that he needed to go back and see him. It had to be important. 

Downton Abbey hadn't changed that much since he'd been there the last time. He didn't need the Family knowing he was there, or any of the other servants either. If someone saw him then let's face it, he'd be drawing attention to himself, what with his good looks and all, you know? And that wasn't what Mr. Barrow needed right now, not if something bad had happened. 

Jimmy went around to the back door the servants used and tried the door confidently. Oddly enough, it was locked. So he did the next expected thing: he knocked. Surely someone would hear him. It wasn't that late yet. At least some people would still be up.

No answer. 

He tried again. Still no answer. Jimmy frowned to himself, took a deep breath, and flat out banged on the door. _BANG BANG BANG BANG BA--_

Finally, way too slowly for Jimmy's liking, the door housemaid. An annoyed-looking housemaid, some little mousy looking thing he didn't recognize, stood there being basked in the warm light of the kitchen. Any other time and he might've flirted with her; he saw how her eyes softened when she saw it was someone who didn't look like a serial killer or a thief. 

"Can I help you?" she asked softly. He didn't even hesitate. If he had to push his way in, he would. 

"Where's Mr. Barrow? Is he all right? I need to come in--"

The girl frowned. "Mr. Barrow--?

Suddenly, another figure appeared in the doorway, and on instinct, Jimmy took off his cap. For one frightening second he thought it was Mr. Carson, but no, the real answer was only slightly better: Mrs. Hughes. For some reason she had never really liked Jimmy when everyone else had. He had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the year he'd given Mr. Barrow the cold shoulder (understandable) but now they were friends (not understandable). Either way, he'd come when she'd asked, so she couldn't be mad at him for that. 

But just as he was thinking of this, her eyes flashed. "James, come in quickly, and please stop talking."

"...yes ma'am." He couldn't do anything right when it came to some people, it seemed, no matter how good his intentions were. He followed her through the Servants Hall and through the back hall, towards the Servants' Quarters where everyone slept. Before they went through, she stopped him. 

"...brace yourself, lad." Her voice was surprisingly gentle, her eyes very sad. He wanted to ask something else, but she opened the door and stood back for him to go on through. 

* * *

Thomas Barrow...looked frail. 

That wasn't going to be a word Jimmy would ever associate with the man. When he first met him, he seemed like a mystery, though one that should've been pretty obvious. He was all small smiles, cool words, trying to catch his own eye. Hands on his shoulders, way too close, but never to actually hurt him. And then the whole thing happened and it made too much sense. Thomas' wide eyes, pink lips, how his voice cracked--

And Jimmy's own fury. His disgust at the fact that an actual man he knew, worked with, liked other blokes. And that he would choose him to live out his unnatural thoughts. 

But then--after his cruelness, after giving him nothing more snide comments and glares, even after Jimmy threatening to have him _arrested--_Thomas Barrow had gotten beat up on Jimmy's behalf. He'd saved him. Wanting nothing in return. That's what had gotten through to Jimmy, if he had to guess what was the turning point. The fact that he had asked to be his friend. 

And if he was gonna be honest? Being Mr. Barrow's friend had been great. While he had always been looking out for Jimmy himself, he had a mean streak going through him, something that Jimmy half found hard to imagine--but when he saw it, it was hilarious. And it aligned with Jimmy's own attitude for other people. They both had this way of thinking they were better than most other people, and had found each other. 

He regretted leaving him. That didn't make him a fairy. It didn't, okay? 

And he'd expected to come back to the man he knew, when he visited. He had planned on visiting before this too. But someone he knew: a tall man, proud, with sleek dark hair and the scent of cologne and smoke; grey eyes and sturdy hands over a deck of cards; lips twisting in a smile around a cigarette. Not...this. 

Thomas Barrow was propped up against pillows; Jimmy recognized his same room from a few years ago. It wasn't something drastic like they put in books. He didn't look like a skeleton or something, he still had meat on his bones, but...his skin was waxy, and besides the fact that he looked scruffy and unshaven, his face was pinched and white. He didn't react when Jimmy came in so he didn't even know if he was conscious or not. 

An older woman Jimmy didn't recognize was sitting in a chair by his bed. She stood up when Jimmy walked in though, looking meek, and he wanted to say something encouraging to her, but just then he saw Mr. Barrow more closely; his stomach dropped out and--

Both of his wrists were wrapped in a thick layer of clean gauze. 

_Oh Mr. Barrow, what the hell did you do? _

"Miss Baxter," Mrs. Hughes said behind him. He didn't even look up. "This is James Kent. He used to work here. Thomas will be pleased to see him when he wakes up." Miss Baxter stood up, looking shaking, and she managed to give Jimmy a weak smile he didn't return. Maybe he was being rude. He definitely was. But this was an exception, and the others in the room didn't say anything. "Let's give them some privacy."

He felt a hand on his shoulder after he'd sunk down into the now empty chaired; he flinched slightly. "...call me when he wakes, lad," Mrs. Hughes whispered. 

At least she said _when _and not _if. _

He watched Mr. Barrow for a long time. The room was dark, and he couldn't see the clock on his bedside table, so Jimmy had no idea what time it was or how much time had even passed since he'd arrived. His eyes glazed over, becoming unfocused as he watched him--watched the shallow breaths Mr. Barrow took, watching how his ribcage rose and fell delicately. 

Somehow he'd reached out and took his hand. Not pulled his arm away from where they rested on his linens out of fear that he'd do something wrong and the blood would start again. He was sure if the bandages weren't as thick, he'd be able to see where they'd bled; but they were thick, and wrapped firmly, and that was a relief. Mr. Barrow's hands were rough. He'd happened to take the one that was already scarred from the war; he wasn't wearing his glove, and Jimmy's palm, clammy, pressed against the other man's. 

Purely platonic. But for once Jimmy, the king of 'no homo' comments when it came to Mr. Barrow at least, wasn't thinking of that.

His friend had almost done something...bad. Something really bad. He didn't know why, but he didn't need to know why to comfort him, did he? That wasn't how those things worked. He'd sit here, not falling asleep, not feeling anything but the pulse in Thomas' hand letting him know he was still there with him. 

He didn't sleep. He couldn't even think of doing it at a time like this. The sun rose and made his eyes smart, but he didn't give it no mind. It was after this when the door finally opened again, but this time he was so numb and exhausted that he didn't even flinch. He didn't even turn around to see who it was until the person spoke. 

"...Jimmy?"

Only then did he turn. Anna Bates stood in the doorway. She looked mostly the same, even better than she had before--she was visibly pregnant, and holding a tray full of toast, a mug of tea. She looked surprised at him being there too, but considering everything it probably wasn't the important thing that had happened that night. 

As an afterthought he pulled his hand away from Mr. Barrow's hand. It was still not moving. 

To her credit Anna didn't look like she was about to make a big deal out of it. She bit her lip. "Dr. Clarkson said he was going to be all right," she whispered. "He didn't hit an artery, thank god."

Jimmy didn't want to ask but something compelled him to: "Why?"

She frowned. Maybe she didn't get it. "Why what?"

"Why'd he do it?"

She didn't answer. He didn't blame her. That wasn't really something that had an answer to, at least not a simple one, and only one person could tell the truth--and that person was still unconscious in the bed beside Jimmy. 

Soon after, he heard the soft click of the bedroom door. They were alone once again. 

* * *

He still didn't know what time it was. Maybe the evening or something. Jimmy had his forehead in his one hand--the other gentle and warm in Mr. Barrow's. He was staring at the floor--bare, hardwood--and his eyes must've glazed over because before he knew it he was opening them. He was startled, his heart pounding, because he'd heard a voice. 

"...Mrs. Hughes, please tell me you didn't sleep all night in that chair."

His voice was wan and hoarse, paper thin, like all the energy had been sucked out of him. Jimmy thought of what someone had probably found--blood dripping off his wrist at an alarming pace--and that wasn't too far off from the truth, was it? Jimmy glanced over at him, and his eyes were still closed so the comment sort of made sense. Jimmy was still holding his hand; his thumb tracing soothing circles on his knuckles slowly. 

He cleared his throat. What was he supposed to say right now? Should he say anything?

"...er, not her, Mr. Barrow. It's me." And then, because the man had been pretty out of it, and probably still was: "It's Jimmy."

Mr. Barrow opened his eyes and Jimmy could've cried. He still looked so pale and sick, but you know what? His eyes really were the same. For a moment he just stared at him blankly, like he was waiting for Jimmy to disappear or something, like he really did think he was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Maybe he'd have thought he was dreaming, or already bled out and dead--but slitting his wrists must've hurt. 

He still didn't say anything. Jimmy leaned forward, and his eyes were wet. His hand gripped Thomas' a little more tightly. 

"Mr. Barrow? It's Jimmy," he said again, in a voice softer now than he'd ever heard before. "You're at Downton. You're patched up now. Gonna be okay. Y-you've been sleeping for a long time--Anna brought you some tea, are you thirsty--?"

"Jimmy." He breathed, and the one word sent chills down his spine. He looked so weak. Sounded so weak. 

Jimmy pulled his hand away gently to just grab the little mug of tea. He slipped a hand behind his neck to support him sitting up a bit more, so he wouldn't choke or waterboard himself by accident, the other putting the cup up to his mouth. He was parched; his lips looked cracked and dry. But he took a few weak swallows of the drink. That was a good sign. 

"There," Jimmy said. He knew he was rambling, filling the silence."There, that's a little bit better, isn't it? Do you need anything else? There's toast, or if you're in pain, I-I could go and get Mrs. Hughes or something--"

"...you came." Thomas whispered. He sounded like he was about to drift back into unconsciousness, and Jimmy didn't want that. He wanted him to stay with him, and he squeezed his hand firmly, willing Thomas to just squeeze his hand back, just a little bit. 

"Course I did," he said. "I...meant to come before, Mr. Barrow, I really did, I didn't want to just come because of this."

Mr. Barrow's face twisted slightly. "Shouldn't have to see this."

"I want to." He blurted out. "I mean..you deserve someone to just be here for you. Because you matter. A lot. To me."

"...you're the only one who thinks I should be alive." It was a whisper. 

"One person is more than zero," Jimmy said, and his voice wasn't more than a whisper too. He felt a dampness on his cheeks, mirrored on the other man's face. God, he was going to be really dehydrated. "I know it's not enough to just..say I should be enough, but--you're that person to me." With a jolt he realized it was true. "I'm so sorry."

His eyes were closed. His breathing still came in sharp wheezes. Jimmy winced. And then, before he could hesitate, before he could second-guess himself, he blurted out--

"...I love you, Thomas."

It terrified him, it really did. It made his hands shake and his stomach clench so hard he felt sick. It was something that...he'd managed to just convince himself was wrong, was some sort of fluke, that he was _normal, _for god's sakes. That he didn't like blokes. But he looked at Thomas Barrow--at his cheekbones, his rough hands, his strong jaw. Masculine, undeniably so, and...not disgusting. Terrifying, but not disgusting. That scared him too. Everything scared him. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes again. Jimmy managed a smile. It was sad. 

"It's going to be all right," he promised. And even if he couldn't ensure how other people thought of Thomas--of both of them, to be honest--he could prove how _he _thought of Thomas. Something he should've been brave enough to do years ago. 

He squeezed his hand. And you know what? Even if it was weak, Thomas managed to squeeze back. 


End file.
